


What You Need

by Xela



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-08
Updated: 2011-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-14 14:16:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xela/pseuds/Xela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Castiel had been Chosen.  He'd received his instructions from On High: “Save Dean from Hell.”  That had been easy and straight forward.  But once he'd accomplished that, he had received another: “Be what Dean needs.”</i></p><p><i>Castiel had no idea what that meant.  He still doesn't.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Need

**Author's Note:**

  * For [archerstar](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=archerstar).



Castiel and his brethren are sent to Earth with specific instructions, tasks and goals that must be completed lest God's Creation be destroyed.

Castiel both envies and disdains humanity, now having been confined to a human host and subjected to human needs and desires. They take so much for granted, and there's a certain amount of bliss in that. They do not need to learn how to translate stomach pains into hunger or heavy limbs as a need for sleep. He's still figuring these odd signals and clues out. He could do without them.

That's another thing: he has only been a 'he' for a few months now. Never before had he thought in such constricting terms of gender and identity, nor been granted privileges based upon sex. Angels are androgynous, and they make no assumptions based on something as unimpressive as genitalia. Castiel had chosen his host because this mortal's prayers had appealed to him. He hadn't realized this decision could lead to such disharmony.

****

Castiel had been Chosen. He'd received his instructions from On High.

“Save Dean from Hell.”

That had been easy and straight forward. But once he'd accomplished that, he received another.

“Be what Dean needs.”

Castiel had no idea what that meant. He still doesn't.

****

Castiel looks deep into the depths of Dean Winchester's soul and tries to figure out what he needs. Tries to understand what's missing so Castiel can become what Dean needs. His comprehension of humanity is limited, and therefore confusing. Dean needs many things; how can Castiel chose just one?

Castiel has never failed his God before, and he will not start now.

He finds his charge is deeply conflicted and hurting (a new concept for Castiel, but one in which his host was quite well-versed). Dean doesn't remember Hell in the way humans remember the past or contemplate the future; not yet, that will come back with time. He may not remember, but Hell has left a wound on Dean's soul as visible to Castiel as any physical mark. Castiel had wiped away the marks on Dean's body, brought him into this world a new.

He thinks now, as Dean suffers silently, rarely allowing Sam or Bobby to even glimpse the truth of his torment, that may have been a mistake. Humans are tactile and immediate. They respond to the obvious. Though Dean's suffering is as obvious to Castiel as the sun.

****

Castiel weighs the evidence. Searches out the other times Dean has felt this way and tries to determine what had eased him. Castiel does a very human thing (in his mind) and makes a list: Dean likes distraction; he prefers bursts of anger and aggression and release over prolonged looks of fear and pity.; he likes to lash out, explode in his anger.

So Castiel makes himself a target. He presents a cold and aloof front to Dean, devoid of the emotions he's come to experience since taking over this body.

He threatens to send Dean back to Hell if he remains uncooperative, tells him that they're both caught in something bigger than just Dean. He gives Dean something to both believe in and rebel against. (He has never lied before, and he feels...unsettled. He could never send Dean back to Hell. Dean is here for a reason, but that's not quite it. Dean is...not for Hell. Not while Castiel still lives.)

Dean glares and snarls and soldiers on, pushes Hell to the back of his mind and hates Castiel. This upsets Castiel more than the lying, but it cannot be helped.

****

Castiel finds himself caught between two orders. He has been instructed to send Dean to the past so that he can understand how big this is, how long these plans have been gestating. To truly comprehend the danger Sam poses to himself and the world.

Castiel is fairly certain this is not something Dean _needs_ to know, because no matter how dangerous Sam _could_ become, Dean will never turn against him. His faith and devotion to his brother is unwavering, and while this knowledge will be hard for Dean to bear, it won't change how Dean feels about Sam. This trip back in time will only cause heartbreak and sorrow because Dean cannot change the past, but he will try.

Castiel does what he can to explain, but he forgets how limited human perception is. The anger Dean directs towards him burns. His emotions are like fire against Castiel's senses, sharp and unpleasant.

After that, Castiel stays away and watches from afar. Uriel's dark murmurings and contemptuous hatred for Sam and Dean and all of humanity do not help him unravel the mystery of Dean's needs. Castiel is becoming more and more certain he's searching in all the wrong places, but he doesn't know where else to look.

****

Castiel wonders at the looks “Anna,” once known as Seraphiel, throws him. Human faces are incredibly expressive, but reading them takes a lifetime of experience and practice. It's odd to see tenderness and compassion on Seraphiel, once the fiercest of seraphim. He can still see the angel beneath the years of humanity.

He wonders what it would be to Fall.

\----

Even the angels have heard of Alastair. Tales of his viciousness are passed around quietly, tragedies of pure souls tainted by Alastair's hand. That's his specialty, turning the righteous into avatars of hate and death. In retrospect, Castiel should have known Alastair had been involved with Dean Winchester's eternal torment.

Sera—Anna attempts to alleviate Dean's guilt, but Castiel could have told her that wouldn't work. Dean's not looking to lessen his burden; he's searching for absolution.

But she's trying, which is more than Castiel can say for Sam. Anna thinks that Dean has forgotten what it means to live in the world, why humanity is something worth fighting for. She tries to remind him about the joys of the flesh, to show him what convinced her to give up Grace. Dean thanks her for both sacrifices the only way he knows how, and Castiel thinks they compliment one another nicely. Then his body flushes hotly, and he gets distracted trying to figure out what this human signal means.

The answer is both awe inspiring and terrifying.

\----

Uriel comes with bloodthirsty vengeance, prepared to kill to protect their mission. He sneers at humanity, hates it for the gifts it takes for granted and the Power they deny. Castiel keeps his silence, though he no longer believes as Uriel does. He has encountered more of humanity than Uriel; he has yet to meet one that does not believe in something greater than themselves.

Hell has not made Dean any less determined, nor less committed to what he believes is right. He refuses to give them Anna, which infuriates Uriel and pacifies Castiel. Dean may be hurting but he didn't lose himself in Hell, despite Alastair's best efforts. So Castiel waits to see what the brothers will do, and soon Anna ceases to be and Seraphiel has returned, blazing with God's righteousness. One more soldier in an increasingly bloody battle.

Dean mourns her. It takes Castiel a moment to figure out that he's not mourning _Anna,_ but mourning what she gave him. Understanding. Time. Permission to be broken. Perhaps Anna did more than Castiel thought. Perhaps she shook the foundation of Dean's self-control in ways Castiel would never have been able. But she's gone, and he's left with the aftermath, watching Dean slowly deconstruct.

Sam is too busy loosing sight of what drives him to notice. He misconstrues Dean's actions as weakness. Castiel has been learning about human psychology in an effort to understand Dean, and he believes Dean may be suffering from something called _Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome._ And guilt. A lot of guilt.

Even when Dean confesses his sins—forty years worth—Sam's thoughts circle single-mindedly around destroying Lillith. Keep Dean safe by destroying Lillith.

He has no idea how alike he and John Winchester are in their quest for justice. Particularly when Sam's reason for fighting is slowly losing cohesion, without any help from Lillith at all.

****.

Dean breaks in Duluth, without any warning. Sam has left under the pretense of food. Alone in their rented room, Dean screams. He throws his head back and lets loose.

A chair slams into the wall, the plaster cracking from floor to ceiling. The beds are overturned and one of the pillows sends the bedside lamp tumbling to the floor where it shatters. The TV sparks as it dies, and the flimsy table in the corner breaks after three hits. So does Dean's hand, but he keeps punching anyway.

“What do you want?” Dean growls, turning away to hide his face. Castiel says nothing, just watches the way Dean's shoulders curve inwards, how rigidly he holds himself. He watches Dean pack away his emotions, sweep them under the veneer of his former life: the swagger, the attitude, the leering. It all rings hollow, and Castiel's face pulls down into a frown, a left over reflex from his long-gone host. Or perhaps a manifestation of just how 'native' he has gone.

“You're no Christian Bale,” Dean tells him.

“I...do not understand your reference,” Cstiel says with a frown. Blood drips down onto the already stained carpet.

“Dark and brooding on you isn't going to make the women swoon or a million dollars on opening weekend.”

“Are you referring to the expression 'a million dollar smile?'” he asks, trying to follow Dean's convoluted logic. Human speech patterns and colloquialisms are both baffling and fascinating, though there appears to be no true rational to how one employs such turns of phrase.

“...where did you...?” Dean trails off, shaking his head.

“I have been reading,” Castiel says haughtily. Dean blinks at them and then starts to laugh, deep guffaws that sound wrenching and painful and not about humor. His entire body shakes with the force of his sobs, and he doubles over, unable to hold himself upright. Castiel watches with bemusement, filing away Dean's behavior for further study, and fixes the room.

Dean straightens and wipes his eyes, tears disguised under the cover of humor. But Castiel can feel the darkness and pain lurking under the surface, caught there with nowhere to go. Dean glances around the room with disinterest.

Dean's eyes are still bright when Castiel steps closer, invading the space humans define as their own. But he doesn't move away, just waits and watches. Castiel has the urge to cup Dean's face, draw his fingers over sharp cheekbones and full lips. He resists, unsure of his motivations. Unsure of how Dean might react. Instead, he catches Dean's hand and heals him, feeling the bone knit together seamlessly and the skin close up without a mark.

“Alastair will die screaming,” Castiel promises darkly.

****

Sam has gone to Ruby, still walking a finer line than he knows, when Dean startles from the nightmares that plague him. His suffering moves restlessly over Castiel, prickling and unsettling. All Castiel wants to do is chase it away, replace it with something else. He moves silently through the room and stands by the edge of Dean's bed, looking down at his charge.

Dean wakes up in a sweat, eyes wild and a shout on his lips. His body trembles with the violence of his memories. Dark circles make him look pale and sallow, hardly a robust picture of health and vitality. Castiel hadn't known humans could cry in their sleep until he saw the glint of light on Dean's cheeks.

It's a sign of how tired and withdrawn Dean must be that he just glances at Castiel before staring at the ceiling without a word of protest or acknowledgment. There's no fire in him anymore, just bone-deep weariness and disconnection. Castiel frowns.

“Survival is the greatest of human instincts,” Castiel says. Dean remains silent, and Castiel controls his frustration. “Your people forgive much in the name of survival.” Dean snorts a laugh completely lacking in humor.

For lack of anything else, Castiel seats himself on the bed. He can feel the heat of Dean's body and the hum of his humanity through the flimsy sheets. Dean doesn't move, just stares at the ceiling, thoughts dense and inaccessible. Castiel scowls and brushes his fingertips over Dean's jaw, only to reel back at the crush of chaos in Dean's mind.

Dean, for his part, starts and jerks away. But his heart rate has sped up, and his breathing has taken on a ragged edge. A term flitters through Castiel's mind, _touch-starved,_ something he hadn't fully understood until he had flesh himself. Indeed, the first brush of another's hand against his, the physical exchange of I'm here, we're here together, had left him speechless. A year in Hell can't be conducive to such affection, so Castiel deliberately drags his knuckles over Dean's cheekbones and down his jaw.

He reads want and desire in the way Dean's eyes flutter shut, in the quick gasp of air, the stutter of his heartbeat, the tension in his muscles. He feels how Dean craves this in ways Castiel had never thought possible. Touch kindles something primal and urgent in Dean, something Castiel very much wants to explore. Because Castiel has his own desires now. This body is not merely a shell; it is his, the host ferried up to heaven in return for his sacrifice, and it _wants._

The first press of their lips is nothing like he expected. From his research, he'd imagined something sharp and bright, life-changing in the dramatic ways humans had of describing things. But kissing seems to be just another form of contact, skin-to-skin. Until Dean _opens_ to him and his tongue brushes teasingly against Castiel's lips. It's incredibly intimate, the way Dean draws Castiel in, invites him closer.

This shouldn't be so intense. There's nothing in his studies that suggests the way their tongues slide across one another, the taste of Dean and the feel of him tucked close, should magnify the sense receptor in his body, make even the feel of his clothes cause sharp flares of arousal to course through him—strong enough to make Castiel gasp and shudder. He has a fundamental understanding of how human bodies work, how systems come together to create a being as complex as Dean Winchester. This comprehension is essential to understanding the world that humans build around themselves; it all mimics the internal working of the human mind, the secrets of life artificially created even if they haven't come to understand those functions yet. But this didactic knowledge pales in comparison to implementation.

The world feels as it never has before, and Castiel groans.

Dean whimpers in response and pulls on Castiel's coat, drawing them even closer. Castiel has sacrificed higher thought, letting his body guide his every movement. He presses his erection into Dean, feeling an answering hardness where their groins brush together. It's...indescribable and utterly consuming. Which explains why he's confused when the heat of Dean's mouth disappears, and his efforts to reclaim it are foiled. He—and his body—very much want to take this to its natural conclusion.

“What?” Castiel growls, righteously indignant. Dean's eyes darken and his breathing stutters.

“I'm not gay,” Dean tells him. Castiel blinks. He had not been under the impression Dean was in a lighthearted and carefree mood, and he couldn't figure out what he had done that gave Dean the impression he thought otherwise.

“If you are feeling melancholy, I am told sexual intercourse has a positive effect on the human condition,” Castiel says peevishly. From his studies, Dean should have grown out of this indecisive behavior during a phase called 'high school.'

“Fuck,” Dean groans, flopping bonelessly back on the bed.

“That was my intention, yes.” Humans are truly unfathomable. Dean gapes at him, and Castiel notes that his lips are swollen and red. He likes this, wants to see it again. Wants to taste Dean again. Wonders why he hasn't yet, because he is an angel of the Lord, filled with divine light and righteous fury. He has been taught to assess situations and act swiftly, without hesitation. Dean makes a high-pitched squeaking noise when Castiel pins him to the bed, mouth insistent and unforgiving.

“You don't understand!” Dean protests when Castiel reluctantly gives up his lips in favor of dragging his tongue up the column of Dean's throat and to his ear.

“As an angel, I am blessed with the capacity to—” he gets sidetracked by the way Dean surges up into him when he bites down on the lobe of Dean's ear. Dean is hard, very much so, and the friction of their erections rubbing together, even through layers of clothes, is wonderful. It takes Castiel a moment to realign his thoughts. “To absorb and process copious amounts of information in a meaningful way.” Dean's skin tastes of salt and musk, a scent and flavor Castiel has yet to come across in this world.

“Did you just tell me you're a fast learner?” Dean asks, amusement and disbelief (Castiel thinks, he still has trouble with odd combinations of emotions) mixing with each other. There may have been a touch of sarcasm in his tone as well. He pulls away and thinks about what Dean asked.

“That would be a more succinct way to say it, yes.” Kissing is a far more satisfying activity than talking, Castiel decides.

“You're a dude,” Dean mutters, and from his tone he is not speaking to Castiel.

“In this form yes,” Castiel answers him anyway. Dean seems to take some umbrage with this fact, and Castiel probes to find out if the gender of his body is, as the humans would say, a 'deal breaker.' Dean still buzzes with arousal, endorphins flooding his body, blood filling his cock. Castiel can taste human sex pheromones in the air and concludes that Dean doth protest too much.

Castiel dips his head and lets his warm breath ghost over Dean's skin, then slowly leans down to press a kiss to the hollow of Dean's clavicle. Dean's pulse flutters. Castiel kisses him again.

Dean doesn't tell him to stop, so Castiel widens his exploration. He ghosts his lips along Dean's skin and hums low in his throat, trying to mimic the sound of Dean's blood rushing through his veins. He slips his fingers underneath the worn shirt that covers Dean's chest. He's lost weight since Castiel returned him.

Castiel traces the curve of Dean's ribs, the softness of his belly that soon tightens into taut muscle. For all his study of the human body, the actual experience is breathtaking. The reactions he can draw from Dean, from a minute, involuntary muscle tick when Castiel licks a wet trail over Dean's skin then blows on it, to the full body shudder his teeth scraping across a dusky nipple causes. And there are sounds, too. Breathy whimpers and pitched moans.

Castiel pulls back to see Dean's face like this, when he sounds so unrestrained. He's taken aback that there tears on Dean's face, rolling down his cheeks and staining the pillow underneath his head. Castiel kisses one of Dean's tears, the salt sharp against his tongue. He tastes Dean's fears, his troubles and his worries. Dashed hopes and broken dreams, memories of sulfur and blood, the screams of the already-dead who will never find peace.

This is the answer Castiel has been searching for.

He touches Dean with relentlessly gentle kindness. Kisses the invisible scars that no one but he can see. The place on Dean's side where Alastair drove his knife, day after day. The sinuous curve of a lash against Dean's chest, levied upon him by a Fury. The pulpy mess over Dean's chest, where Alastair ripped Dean's still-beating heart from his body. The invisible scars that Dean remembers and Castiel washed away.

Castiel does for Dean what he cannot do for himself—grants forgiveness and absolution with his slow seduction. With every touch, Castiel wipes away the hardened shell Dean needed to survive forty years in hell. He doesn't need it now. He whispers promises against Dean's flesh, writes Dean's pardon with his tongue. Dean's skin hot and tense under him. Their clothes fall away, barriers Castiel removes with the flick of a thought. Dean twitches and starts with every new touch, conditioned for pain after so long in Hell. Castiel sets about changing everything, teaching Dean's body to remember something other than pain and torment.

Dean's fingers scratch grooves in Castiel's back, the stinging pain a sharp counterpoint to the pleasure that sings along his nerves. Castiel hisses and arches up, his hips driving down into Dean's. He feels the smooth hardness of Dean's own erection and the coarse texture of his pubic hair sliding against the grain. It's thrilling and arousing, but Castiel wants more.

He reaches down and wraps a hand around the both of them, presses Dean's length against his own. Dean gasps, his head thrown back and throat exposed. Castiel takes the implicit invitation and rakes his teeth down the vein he can see throbbing under Dean's skin.

Dean starts thrusting into Castiel's grip, the rocking motion of his hips starting long and measured, drawing the circle of Castiel's fingers from root to tip. Castiel matches him thrust for thrust, the two of them moving together.

Wetness coats the top of their erections, spilling onto Castiel's fingers and that feels...quite nice. He rubs his thumb over the crown of Dean's penis, collecting and spreading the wetness he finds there. This makes Dean's thrusts stutter, his hips jerking involuntarily and a moan sounding loud in Castiel's ear.

Dean comes with a hoarse shout, body bowed up and tense against Castiel before he collapses back on the bed. Dean's pleasure slams into Castiel's consciousness and he follows Dean into mindnumbing bliss with a high-pitched gasp, wetness coating Dean's stomach. He tries to keep himself braced over Dean, but his arms tremble and won't support his weight. He collapses and rolls to one side so as not to crush Dean beneath him, but he's still half on top of Dean, head pillowed on his chest.

“'S good,” Dean slurs, eyes heavy. Castiel grins and nuzzles into Dean's chest feeling charitable and in love with the world. Perhaps this would cure Uriel of his extreme misanthropy.

“I now understand the human obsession with sex,” Castiel tells Dean seriously. His body temperature drops, the sweat from their exertions cooling in the night air. “I concur.”

“Dude.” Dean pokes Castiel in the head. “Did I just dehymenate you?!” Castiel lifts his head and gives Dean a censuring look; dehymenate is not a real world (he has read several dictionaries, he would know) and it sounds uncouth.

“While I understand your meaning, there are better ways to say it,” Castiel says haughtily.

“Holy shit, I defiled an angel,” Dean says, sounding smug. He stares up at the ceiling and tucks his hands behind his head. A few moments pass before Dean declares, with solemn sincerity, “I rock.”

Castiel rolls his eyes—something he picked up from Dean, he should be proud—and pulls Dean out of the wet spot. Dean sets aside his gay angel panic and curls against Castiel's side, feeling safe a protected. He falls into a deeper sleep than he's managed since coming back, and Castiel realizes he's been fulfilling God's command all along.

What Dean needs is him.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Gift Request:** _What I’d like is a scene involving Dean breaking down about his time in Hell to Castiel (Post 4.08 or even 4.09 with the whole Alastair thing) and Castiel comforting him, in his weird angel-y way. Maybe there could be wings involved? Maybe Dean can now see Castiel’s true form as his faith increases? Maybe they have sex? Feel free to take it as near or as far from those “guidelines” as you want. I’m open and love surprises._


End file.
